The problem with having an early night (22.30 rather than the usual 01:00) is you wake up at about 04.37, see that Russ has written you an essay and never get back to sleep. Six hours sleep is plenty, sometimes more than enough.
I needed a proper breakfast to kickstart the day. Half an hour up the fabled A697, immortalised in song by Queens of the Stone Age, Wooler had a Milk Bar.
I thought milk bars only existed in mid Wales, opened by Methodists who’d closed all the pubs on Sunday.
Unfortunately, as you’ll see from the picture, Doddington Dairy’s bar was take-out only, but they kindly guided me toward the Terrace Cafe in town.
Over the bridge, I was able to do some of that twitching.
James says this is a chicken, but I’m sure it’s a pigeon. Duncan can have it for his mascot.
Wooler is pleasant but functional in the way that small towns along Offa’s Dyke often are.
Some Scottish looking architecture, a “healing space” near the TIC, and a Co-Op that shouted “Come in, it is safe” to me as I walked past.
I’m a law-abiding member of society, I am (bar the incident in Worcester in ’93 we don’t talk about), so I waited for the Green Light, like law-abiding Cliff Richard, and popped in for some murk for Mrs RM and cough candy for me.
Then I was first in to the Terrace at 8.30 opening, taking my mask on and off 3 times and grabbing the window seat.
I kid you not, by 8:45 it was packed. A dozen gentlefolk on ones and twos, all commiserating loudly with each other about the new infringements on their liberty.
“Ooh, it’s a terrible thing Billy“
“Wear yer mask Carol or they’ll close us doon“
“Everything’s so sanitised now, no-one gets germs”
“My hands are so clean they’re transparent“
It was like being in a magical pub, where they put on a little play in local dialect for you. Only with a full English in front of you.
Wonderful meat, questionable mushrooms, decent coffee. An 8/10 cafe experience, and evidence that the British love a good crisis.